


In This Hour the World is Ending

by crazyparakiss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, During the War, F/M, Infidelity, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-War, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 21:01:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3148430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyparakiss/pseuds/crazyparakiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Because no matter what the world keeps spinning. Lives beginning, others ending.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	In This Hour the World is Ending

**Author's Note:**

> The only thing I have claim over is the poem at the very beginning of the story. If you want to use it for any purpose, please ask permission first.

**Recipient:** [](http://roses-at-sunset.livejournal.com/profile)[**roses_at_sunset**](http://roses-at-sunset.livejournal.com/)  
 **Author:** [](http://crazyparakiss.livejournal.com/profile)[**crazyparakiss**](http://crazyparakiss.livejournal.com/)  
 **Title:** In This Hour the World is Ending  
 **Beta:** [](http://mksolomon.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://mksolomon.livejournal.com/)**mksolomon** (whom I am very grateful for)  
 **Pairing/s:** (in order of appearance) Theodore Nott/ Daphne Greengrass, George Weasley/Audrey Weasley, Oliver Wood/Katie Bell(non romantic), Draco Malfoy/Astoria Greengrass  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Warning(s):** Sex, post war angst, infidelity, non-linear story  
 **Word Count:** ~3,000  
 **Summary:** _Because no matter what the world keeps spinning. Lives beginning, others ending._  
 **Author's Notes:** The only thing I have claim over is the poem at the very beginning of the story. If you want to use it for any purpose, please ask permission first.  
I must say that I loved the prompts and that this challenged me to explore different characters. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it for you.

  


**In This Hour the World is Ending**   


 

> Watch it as it burns down; down to the ground,  
> Pretend we don’t care.  
> We don’t care.  
> Because no matter what the world keeps spinning.  
> Lives beginning, others ending.  
> And all the while it keeps spinning,  
> Never ending.  
> Always spinning.

 

**Theodore and Daphne**

> “The one permanent emotion of the inferior man is fear - fear of the unknown, the complex, the inexplicable. What he wants above everything else is safety.” – H. L. Mencken

 

In the gloom he sees them, brindled with dried blood on cracked grey hands; closer they glide. With hollow eyes that see naught but death and heartless smiles he watches, frozen in fear, as they hungrily rake their spindly fingers over a lily-white body. Dark blonde hair spills in ribbons of curl across a pitch black stone floor; all he can do is stare. Stare. Stare. Stare. His eyes drying out, but he cannot look away. Yet death calls and sucks him in, beckoning him closer to the body of a girl he loves.

“Daphne!” he screams. Yet the sound is an empty chasm, a cracked thing that doesn’t chase away the eerie breathing or virtual silence. She doesn’t move, doesn’t hear him, and he tries again. She doesn’t waken, and petrified, he watches as they bow their faces closer to her still body. A soul glows as it is sucked from her slack lips. No. No. No. He chants, but again no sound escapes his throat. Then, and then, she is grey as death truly steals her away.

Suddenly, he is awake panting into a lighter gloom than the one he just left. Fingers twitch across the hemmed edge of his silk sheets that are damp from terror, and with a bone-weary exhale he falls back against the headboard with a muffled thump. Tears mingle easily with beads of sweat, and he can almost convince his mind that they aren’t real. However, the shaking of his shoulders effortlessly kills his denial.

Long chilly fingers snake up his arm and he almost shouts in fright before he remembers that this is a different sort of darkness. One that doesn’t fester from evil; a darkness born from the natural phenomenon of night. A sigh so soft and sweet it cannot be evil tickles at his bare chest, and soon the warmth of a slim body presses closer as gentle lips brush his ear. “It is alright Theodore. Nothing can hurt you here.”

“Daphne,” he sighs, pressing his face in the crook of her long neck. “I thought they’d killed you.”

He weeps against her, but she shushes him by rocking his body and winding her cool fingers through the thick strands of his hair. “I’m here, love.” He grips her hip with one hand and curves his other arm around her back; splaying his fingers across her spine. “No matter how many times they try to kill me in your sleep, I will always be here when you wake.” With that promise, she kisses his wet eyelashes, and he sobs once more against her. Thankful for her continuous presence; her constant light that threatens to chase away the menacing gloom of his heart.

There is war, here, in his mind. Persistently touching his subconscious with horrors so real he cannot forget, Daphne chases them away, in these early hours of dawn, when his mind is so full he can no longer sleep. She kisses the pain back into submission. With hushing words she reminds him that they are safe now, that nothing can touch them here. Part of him doesn’t buy the lies, because the nightmares are always present, but the other part of him laps them up with desperation.

When dawn finally breaks, and the sun spills an orange gold across the carpet, she leans against him. His arm circles her slim shoulders and she burrows against his chest; a warm and welcome comfort.

“It’s morning,” she says. Weakly, he hums in response. The warm light crosses their bed not long after it rises and caresses them with comfort. Darkness recedes and finally he breathes easy, because without shadows he finally feels safe.

 

 

**George and Audrey**

> “You say you don’t want this again and again, but you don’t, don’t really mean it...”- Tori Amos, Spark 

 

Through the leaded glass she watches as he walks up the wet London street. His black cloak catching the wind in a regal, intimidating sort of fashion. Gone to work, to fight the Wizengamot about anything and everything so as to keep from reminiscing about the brother he lost. The boy he was supposed to protect. He clings to that guilt, martyring his personal life for a death that occurred long ago. She sighs, wishing that he could be as carefree as he’d almost been when they met. He told her once, “Just looking into your blue eyes takes the pain away.” She’d believed him; they got married, had kids, been happy. The novelty left after Lucy was born. He fell into work. She fell into fantasy, and self destructive behaviour. As soon as his flame-bright hair disappears round a bend, there is a whoosh and feet fall heavy as a man walks from the Floo.

No matter how many times she tells herself that this is wrong, she always finds herself rushing forward; diving head first without consequence. In a sick sense, she is begging to be caught, desperate for Percy to notice.

There is a kiss, so fiery it could never compare to the cold, long-dead embers that Percy tries to give. He loves her. She knows that, and she loves him. Yet, their fire died long ago. Each of them sitting at the bottom on opposite sides of a wall, both too weary to tear it down. They are strangers when they touch, their passion is mechanical. Now, tongues meld and fingers grasp at any flesh that is available. His hair is thick with just a bit of wave, and flame bright. Wonderfully bright, identical to the lover she misses. The orange stubble of his square jaw tickles her breasts when her shirt is open for the onslaught of his mouth. She arches, needing, wanting, feeling, for the first time in what seems like ages. In truth, it has only been a few days. He always comes round when Angelina’s comparisons to Fred drive him through the Floo. She imagines he watches for Percy’s haughty gait from his flat’s window.

He bites her too hard and gruffly says, “Sorry, Audrey.”

With a frantic gasp, she replies, “Don’t apologise, George; I want to feel.”

Feel she does; in every sense of the word, she knows sensation. His teeth, his tongue, his sucking lips and gentle or rough thrusts. She knows them all so well by now, welcomes them with an enveloping heat that threatens to burn them all. Her, George, Percy, Angelina, the kids, but still they throw fuel carelessly on the fire. They could stop, but she knows neither of them wants this to end. There is no love, but there is excitement that swirls between them, that binds them with the intensity they both crave.

His smell; his musk wraps around her senses when they come. It is her favourite part of their liaisons because it is the only time when she can allow the tears to blur her vision; just enough to convince herself that this is Percy. Her husband. Just enough lie to her conscience and try to fool it into remembering when Percy, too, was unbound by passion.

She is in the shower, scrubbing her skin raw, when the Floo whooshes once again; signalling George’s departure. Crying, she leans against the tile of the wall. Perhaps tomorrow she’ll try to make things right with Percy, right for George, Angelina, and herself. No more veiled looks and secret whispers against ears in narrow halls. When Mum Weasley looks at her, she can feel the woman’s intuition itching at her skin.

“This has to end,” she whispers against the water-wet wall. “It has to,” a sob escapes her as she slides down in the porcelain bowl of the tub.

 

**Oliver and Katie**

> “I only come here because it makes you sad.”-Pulp, Pencil Skirt

 

They meet in pubs, watching Muggle games while in Muggle towns or listening to the wireless while surrounded by their own. The crowd helps them forget the loneliness that clings to their bones better than the athletic muscle they’ve built over the years. They can share a nearly normal laugh over a pint while the rest of the world continues on as if nothing has changed.

Only it has.

She always looks to her right, expecting him to be there with his longish red hair and hearty smiles. Freckly face screwed up in mischief as he tries to get a hand up her skirt, but alas, those days died at the hands of a Death Eater. In a school she can no longer look at without trembling in fear.

Just the thought brings tears to her eyes. When she glances out of the corner of her left eye, she can see that Oliver is fighting back tears. She’s glad to know that she isn’t the only one still mourning **his** loss. They were all mates; grew up together, knew each other’s fears and joys, revelled in the happiness the others provided.

“I remember the way he lit your broom on fire and then pretended to try and rescue you,” he says into the foamy top of his pint. “You hexed him so hard he swore his bollocks came loose.”

She laughs, even as the tears run down her cheeks. “I miss him, Oliver.”

He looks at her with a sad smile, “Me too, Katie.” His arm wraps round her trembling shoulders, and she turns into the broad chest that he offers for her to sob against. “I’m sorry all I ever do is make you cry.”

“You’re not sorry,” she replies. A choking bitter laugh escapes her as she toys with his shirt that showcases the Irish Quidditch team.

He nods, a deep thoughtful look on his tan face. “You’re right. I’m not.” She sees him give her a small smile, and it lifts the melancholy mood.

“Prat.” She nudges him with her shoulder, “Now buy us a round and let’s get pissed, yeah?”

“Yeah.” He smiles more openly, and their moment of mourning is gone. Fred remembered, never forgotten, and when they receive their new pints they lift them. For a moment he is there.

“To Fred.” Oliver says.

“To Fred,” she echos.

 

 

**Draco/Astoria**

> “Hope is faith holding out its hand in the dark”-George Iles

 

He sits in the corner of the common room, not daring to make eye contact with any person there, brooding as usual. Pansy tries to coax him over for a game of Gobstones. He wants to bark out a laugh at her lack of understanding over the meaning of hopeless. Gobstones won’t make him smile. Nothing can.

He’s tried. They’ve tried. No one can bring him out of his horror-induced shell. Why would he smile when all it shows is his ability to remain human? If the Death Eaters see, they will torture him, make him do vile things to Muggles and Muggleborns. Sure, he hates the likes of Granger, has said that he’s wanted her dead a thousand times over...but, but to kill her himself is just horrifying. In fact, just thinking about someone else killing her because she is not natural is a brutal and frightening thought. He wonders, in these moments in his corner, if he were different perhaps his father would kill him. Heaven forbid he been born a squib, but if he had...

Would things be different?

He hates to think that maybe Potter is right. Staring at the fire, hoping to burn all the terrors of war from his eyes, he hopes that Potter wins. Hopes that the glasses-wearing git is truly golden.

While those thoughts creep upon him, his eyes cast upward, because he feels someone staring. Pale green eyes watch him openly, and with a furrowed brow he tries to recall the name of the girl who watches him so intently. She is beautifully coloured; pale hair, gentle eyes, and milk white skin. The mark of good breeding in her spine and the aloof way she perches on her sofa.

He wonders what her name is just as she starts toward him. He looks around, and notes that everyone is gone. _When did that happen?_ She stands before him in a pale nightgown.

“Let me see it,” she says with hooded eyes. Her voice low and frightening with intensity.

“See what?” he chokes out. Following her line of sight to his left wrist, he instinctively clamps his right hand against the cuff of his robe. Then in a very strained voice he says, “There is nothing to see.”

“Prove it.” She bends closer, the curtain of her hair concealing part of her face, but not the full pull of her smile. Before he can shoot off the angry retort he’d planned, she presses those full nearly colourless lips against his own. “Prove that mark doesn’t change you.”

She turns and walks toward the boy’s dorm. Most of his dorm mates are gone; either recruited for the cause or in hiding because they refused to join. He follows, unaware of her smile. Not noticing the way her gown pools to the black floor, too wrapped up in the beating of his heart to notice. When she stands before the false window that streams in the illusion of moonlight, he notices her. The slim lines of her body, legs, arms, her delicate hands and feet, the small patch of golden hair between her trembling thighs, her small but perky breasts, but most of all her nervous smile.

On an exhale he says, “I’ve never done this before.” All purebloods instil into their children the tradition of waiting for the marital bed to partake in the act of intercourse. Not all the children listen, but Draco has never been one to disappoint his parents. He supposes now that they won’t fault him. He may not live to see his marital bed.

With a shy smile she visibly relaxes, “Neither have I.”

He is confused and doubtful but his needing adolescent body urges him closer, “Then why?” His mind is already befuddled, the thinking processes given over to his lust.

“If I am to die tomorrow,” she whispers, tip toeing so that she can kiss him directly on the mouth. He bends over a little more to help the short girl reach him. “I’d be happy to know that I gave all of myself to the boy they all said I could never get.” He smiles crookedly at the honesty of her answer.

“Who are you?”

She doesn’t look hurt just smirks, “Love me and I’ll tell you.”

When he climbs atop her, it is with trembling hands that he caresses the soft skin of her neck, shoulders, and breasts. The girl beneath him sighs and he feels a flush rush up his neck. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers reverently.

With playful eyes she replies, “I know.”

It brings an unbidden smile to his face and he leans in, without fear, to kiss her. It is a slow dance of dry lips that press together and part. Gentle nips make it a bit wetter and then when the tongues finally meet, they moan together wetly.

For hours he explores her, his mouth and tongue drink it all in; her back, her inner elbow, neck, and the V between her thighs. Each spot makes her squirm and beg, “Please take me.” But he’s much too selfish; he has to show her that even if it’s the first time, he is a Malfoy and Malfoy’s are brilliant at everything. In a way, he sees this as a restoration of his dignity. He can feel the flex of her toes as they curl against his lightly-furred thigh, can smell the scent of his sweat and hers mingling on her skin.

When he enters her, she cries out. So he stops, holding himself inches above her on the weight of his forearms, and groans when he feels her heat clamp down around him.

“Fuck,” he swears, sweat running in small rivers down his back now from the strain of fighting off the need to just take. “Relax. Calm down and relax.” He doesn’t know to which of them he is speaking.

She does, and listening to him, she opens her pale green eyes only to look up at him in wonder. He pauses and gazes at her, really stares, for the first time since they’ve fallen into this bed.

“Astoria?” he asks, remembering the one summer he spent with her and her family on a small Italian villa. He’d bragged about his more extended wealth, said he’d never marry girls as ugly or poor as the Greengrass sisters were. That seems like a lifetime ago now, back when he was hateful and more selfish than he is now; before the war knocked him down with a sense of reality. _‘You are worthless, Draco Malfoy’_ , it had told him, _‘and all the money in the world can and will never change that fact.’_

He feels her relax more as she smiles up at him, the same smile from when she was just a little girl. Then she rolls her head, facing the thing he’d forgot to cover in his need to feel her skin, and without the slightest hint of disgust or worship, she kisses his forearm. Laves at his tainted wrist with sweet little licks. His eyes grow wide in confusion and he tries to jerk it away from her but she holds him steady.

“It’s just a mark, Draco,” she says as she arches closer to him, wrapping her slim arms about his neck and pulling him closer. “Just like the words you said when we were kids; they were just words. None of them have any real meaning.” Boldly, she thrusts against him. It doesn’t bring him much deeper because the angle is awkward, but it has the desired effect and makes him gasp. “This,” she does it again, “This is real. This has meaning.”

They settle on a slow and steady rhythm, no more words are needed as they lock eyes and pant together. When he finishes, Draco whispers her name against her ear. Her response is a smile that he feels against his shoulder.

When he thinks she is sleeping in his arms, he toys with her pale hair. Runs his fingers through the silky strands as he hums in a sated way, “Marry me.” He whispers at the sleeping visage, bending so that he can kiss the powder-soft cheek.

“If you live,” she whispers back, halting him as he hovers before her cheek. “Live.” She rolls over to face him fully, not caring that her bare body is exposed to the chill of the room. “Live and I will make you the happiest man in the world.” She presses a hand to his angular face. “I’ll stand by you when others refuse and I will fight for you when you are too weak to fight for yourself.” Leaning up she kisses him, a scorching kiss that paints her needs and desires for him. “When the Dark Lord falls and the Ministry tries to punish you, I will not desert you; no matter the outcome.”

He cannot help himself; Draco pulls her closer and presses their bodies back together, needing more of her soft skin and desperate lust.

“Don’t talk now,” he pants. “Because in this hour the world is ending, and this is the last thing I want to feel.”


End file.
